


Between The Shadow and The Soul

by KikiRose



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Lie Low At Lupin's, M/M, post azkaban, pre Azkaban
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:43:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KikiRose/pseuds/KikiRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Remus and Sirius stories, in chronological order. From before Azkaban to during and after with a lie-low-at-Lupin's in the mix. Rating may go up later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Last Enemy That Shall Be Conquered

It should have been Sirius. Remus knows that without question—it should have been Sirius who chose the inscription for James and Lily’s headstone. But Sirius, their murderer, is locked away in Azkaban now.  
“It has to be you.” Dumbledore had told him.  
“I don’t want to do it.” Remus had replied.  
“You are all that’s left.” Dumbledore had said and that was that.  
It was cruel, really, for Dumbledore to say that. Remus stands in front of his mirror, staring at his shirtless, scarred reflection with no emotion, no inflection of mouth or eyebrow. Remus was not all that was left—the Marauders were down two, but two still remained.  
Remus has eggs for breakfast. It is a feast; he can hardly ever afford eggs. He sits at the dinner table that had once belonged to his parents in the dining room that had once belonged to his parents in the house he had grown up in. He stands, puts the dishes in the sink, and fills a glass with water. It tastes like the tap and dilutes the taste of pepper and eggs that is still thick in the back of his throat.  
He sets the glass down and wonders what Sirius is eating. If Sirius has gone mad yet. It has been two weeks and Remus isn’t sure if you go mad by then in Azkaban. If you eat in Azkaban. He can see, so clearly it is startling, Sirius standing in some anonymous cell silhouetted against weak sunlight filtering in through the bars to illuminate his face as he slowly goes gaunt, starving in the blackness of prison.  
Remus clenches the glass so tightly it shatters in his hand, shards of glass cutting his palm. Blood drips into the sink, shattering like fireworks against the white porcelain. Remus turns on the tap and watches the water run pink over his hand.  
He didn’t know it was possible to hate so much it was like a fire gnawing at your throat and chest and breath while all the while loving so much it felt like it would break you. He wants to scale the walls of Azkaban and break into Sirius’s cell and grab him, kiss him, weep, whisper I love you I love you I love you into the ebony of Sirius’s hair. He wants to scale the walls of Azkaban break into Sirius’s cell and grab him before pushing him out of the window to watch him break against the ground, to kill Sirius himself.  
Remus walks outside and sits down right in the middle of his lawn, ass immediately damp with the ever-present English dew. He doesn’t know why; doesn’t even like the lawn or the damp grass or the smell of November air but he cannot bring himself to move.  
It should have been Sirius, who chose the inscription. Sirius who was James’s best friend and who, through that, saw Lily like a sister. Sirius who was godfather, best man. Sirius who could think of something to sum up Lily and James Potter on a cold, unforgiving hunk of marble.  
But it can’t be Sirius. It has to be Remus.  
Remus can’t think of anything to write on the stone. He just wants James there beside him so he can yell at James, tell him that he needs to go sort Sirius out and figure out what went wrong and how their Sirius, bright and brilliant Sirius, could have betrayed everything. He wants Peter there so Peter can pipe in unhelpful but appreciated advice. He wants Peter and James and Lily to be alive so there would be nothing to accuse Sirius of and Sirius could walk free and climb down the stairs that leads to Remus’s bedroom and rub the sleep out of his eyes while he asks Remus are there any eggs left you greedy Werewolf.  
He wants to stop wanting Sirius. He wants to stop catching himself thinking of James and Lily and Peter like they are still alive because what inevitably follows is a gasping, empty realization that they are not there and he is alone. He wants to be strong enough to hate Sirius with no trace of love.  
Remus finds himself upstairs with no memory of getting there. He flips through his books of poetry, Yeats and Poe and Plath and Eliot, none of them adequate. James didn’t even like poetry. If Remus put poetry on his gravestone James would call him a nonce and ask for something manlier. Maybe if it was just James Remus could have found something that summed up the Marauder Way, the unspoken code of boyhood that James had been able to articulate with a grin and certain angle of cocked eyebrow. If it was just James he was sure he could have found something. Lily liked poetry, but she liked Byron best and Remus always thought Byron was a bit wordy and he wouldn’t be able to pick the right quote either. Maybe if it was just Lily. If it was just Lily, he would have chosen Byron.  
But it was Lily and James together. Remus could write a novel on how long James had longed over Lily and how long Lily had treated him like something she’d found on the bottom of her shoe. How once Lily had softened a bit and James had stopped being a total prat all the time, they’d held hands and laughed as they walked down the halls. Sirius had been jealous, angry, and aloof. Then Remus had kissed him and everything was okay, even if they didn’t hold hands in the hallway and no one knew. No one knows. Their wedding had been small, simple, but it was a spark of warmth in the middle of the chaotic throws of war. Sirius had toasted the bride and groom with a glass of amber champagne and everyone had laughed and Lily and started crying halfway through. Harry was born not long after, kitten-blue eyes quickly fading to bottle green just like Lily and the tuft on his hair was the same coal-black as James’s.  
That wouldn’t fit on a headstone.  
It should be Sirius who does this. Sirius would have thought of something by now. Sirius shouldn’t be a betrayer, a murderer, a Death Eater. Peter should be alive. James should be alive. Lily should be alive. Harry should have parents.  
Dumbledore said all Remus had to come up with was the inscription—he would take care of everything else. So that night Remus sits at his dinner table and eats a baked potato and thinks of Sirius starving silently in a black hole of a prison cell. He gets out a piece of parchment and stares at for hours.  
In the end, he can only think of one thing. It isn’t Yeats by a long shot and it doesn’t sum up everything he wants to say but it somehow speaks to that curled up, aching corner in his heart that prays desperately for the James and Lily he knew to still be here in some way, their presences gone from his life but not truly eclipsed. If something of them can live on then it will be okay. Sirius won’t be in prison anymore and Harry won’t be orphaned and Remus won’t be running to the bathroom to vomit up the dinner of baked potato and the breakfast of eggs because his stomach is roiling with pain.  
He seals the letter up and attaches it to the Hogwarts’ owl’s leg. He watches the bird fly away into the twilight sky before walking back inside and drinking a glass of water slowly, deliberately. Sirius starving in a cell. James and Lily and Peter underground, bones and dust and dirt.  
The water stays down. Remus counts it as an accomplishment.


	2. The Madness At Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fudge drops by Sirius' cell and brings something that will change the madness.

    During the day the madness is bearable. It is barely even there. At times it will come, a shadow unfurling in Sirius’s mind and over his eyes, but it fades quickly. Like blinking spots out of your eyes it fades quickly.  
     But then night comes like a dark hand, dragging it’s fingers across the light and pressing Sirius down against the filthy floor of his cell and the madness comes like a dark hand the madness comes—  
     _\--Remus lying on the grounds the green green grounds with red blood achingly red blood on the green and Remus is pale and naked and red red blood twisted limbs it was a bad night a bad night and James is tapping gently tapping Remus’s face Wake up Moony oh God Sirius this is bad and it was a bad night a bad night and Sirius is kneeling beside Remus and he tries to shake him awake fear heavy fear in his chest in his lungs and then Remus’s eyelids—_  
 _\--Pale cheeks flushed with anger A disgrace you are a disgrace Sirius dark eyes that are black not grey like his not warm and brown like James’s not wide startled warm like Remus’s and Sirius feels hate coiled in his belly hot hate coiled You cold selfish bitch I’M the disgrace this whole bloody sham of a family is a disgrace and a hand across his cheek hard cold pain spreading he tastes blood warm brown eyes James’s eyes and That’s it I can’t take this anymore and clothes books trunk pushing past father mother brother dark cold eyes the sudden heat of London—_  
     The nights are the worst and Sirius will shift to Padfoot often to try and forestall the madness of night but it is hard to avoid it completely. He cannot run from the memories, not when they are his only companions in this desolate cell.  
     During the day he moves from the ragged cot to the small, barred window that looks out over part of the island and the vast, endless ocean. From the cot to the window to the cot to the window and sometimes to the center of the cell, cross-legged, staring out the endless dark corridor that almost never changes. Sirius thinks that he will never forget the corridor he has memorized every crack every shadow.  
     There is a routine to it. The cot when he is calm enough to be still and close his eyes, when the pull of the dementors is less ferocious or when he is Padfoot. The window when Sirius is restless when his limbs are tense and his muscles are coiled and his chest is full with longing to run, to roll in green grasses and soft sheets, to move to live. He watches the corridor when it is either that or truly lose himself to the madness to the shrieks he can feel building in his throat. He watches the corridor and counts every crack in the stone, finds pictures in the dust.  
     It is never enough to stop night—  
     _\--Can’t be it can’t be Remus not his Remus there are shadows in Remus’s eyes but they move together as always lips and teeth and hips together heat in Sirius’s limbs and chest and heart but no it’s wrong Something’s wrong Moony how could it be him it can’t be his Remus who is the informer Sirius would rather die than believe that but why who else who else but how could it be Remus with his books and awkward smile and kindness endless kindness and the warmth of their breath mingling across pillows but who else who else—_  
 _\--The house the house is ruined—_  
     Sirius tries not to think of his friends when the dementors’ power isn’t drawing them to the front of his mind. He is innocent. He is innocent and he focuses on that with such cold, icy clarity that not even the dementors can take it away. He makes it fill his mind so that he will not be tempted to think to desperately try and remember the good things about his best friends and the man he loved. Loves. Loved. Loves.  
     The good things will not stay, he has learned that. He may recall a snatch of something but then it is gone and the flood of painful things come back and the misery in his chest and stomach will never go away so why taint those snatches with the ache of the dementors in his body?  
     Fudge comes one day and Sirius wonders why he bothers. Is it to lord over all the prisoners? To simply make sure everything is in order? Or does he find it fascinating? Sirius watches him walk through the corridor and is fascinated by the idea of coming and then leaving, of shoes hitting the ground in steps and muscles tugging and moving.  
     “Black.” Fudge murmurs as he stares into Sirius’s cell.  
     “Minister.” Sirius tips his head.  
     There is surprise in Fudge’s face, in his small eyes, and Sirius is again fascinated by these new emotions. Emotions that are not fear or misery—it is like sampling a fine wine, seeing these emotions on Fudge’s face that Sirius has been a stranger to for twelve years.  
     “Are you done with your paper, Minister? If I could take a look? I miss doing the crossword puzzle.” Sirius looks at the white cylinder in Fudge’s hand he wants to see more surprise on the man’s face and he wants to feel something in his hands that is not his own dirty hair, skin, the cloth of his robes and cot, the cold stone of his cell.  
     “Oh? Yes, I suppose I am.” Fudge hands Sirius the newspaper through the bars on his cell and the paper feels wonderful in Sirius’s hands before the joy is muted, dissolved as always.  
     Sirius opens the paper and starts to read and he listens for Fudge’s footsteps as the Minister of Magic walks away. Sirius had forgotten how his own voice sounded; so long he made sure no sound passed his lips. It takes him an even longer moment to remember how to read.  
     And then there. There he is—  
    _\--Lily and James Sirius how could you—_  
     A rat on top of a boy’s shoulder, a rat Sirius knows immediately—  
    _\--It was him it was Sirius’s fault and blood and noise and pain and he is laughing laughing Lily and James Sirius how could you—_  
     Harry. A name Sirius has not thought in a long time. Hogwarts, he reads the name in the paper. The boy. Peter. Hogwarts.  
     The madness comes that night with the newspaper clutched in his hands—  
     _\--Harry so young a baby bright green eyes Lily’s eyes Sirius wants to stop and cry with this child cry over what has happened but he doesn’t he doesn’t he pushes past Hagrid past Hagrid into the house, now half-destroyed and there in a crumpled heap is James his James No the scream is raw and Sirius falls to his knees in front of James’s body and holds his best friend his best friend his James his Jamie his Prongs dead glasses askew dead warm brown eyes empty and he cannot go upstairs cannot see Lily kind Lily good Lily does not want to see her body is already consumed with grief with rage with James dead and cold in his arms and he stumbles outside and is fighting tears is touching Harry’s face grow up like them god grow up like them and Give him to me Hagrid I’m his godfather and Sorry Sirius I have orders from Dumbledore I do Take my bike then I don’t need it anymore and then a giant hand on his shoulder It’ll be okay Sirius someday it will be alright and Hagrid have you oh never mind if you see Remus tell him oh god I have to go I have to go and the house the house is ruined—_  
     The madness comes but then it ebbs and Sirius is still holding the newspaper. He stares down at the picture of Peter and thinks of the baby. Harry. He thinks of   Remus. He looks up at the window and then at the bars on his door.  
     He will escape. And perhaps the thought is madness but it is a calculated, cunning madness that fills Sirius with a sudden hot fire of purpose.  
     During the day the madness is bearable. It is barely even there.


	3. The First Good Memory

Sirius wakes up as a man with a name caught on his lips and a clear head for the first time in twelve years.   
With a start he scrambles into a sitting position and promptly turns his head and vomits up seawater and bile. His head is spinning and freewheeling ticking like a clock that is finally tuned after years of misuse and he buries his face in his hands but all sees is Remus Lupin’s smiling face behind his eyelids.  
“Remus,” Sirius whispers hoarsely and he waits for the onslaught of misery but all that comes to him is the sound of Remus Lupin’s laugh and the way he looks silhouetted against a pillow and the way it sounded when he would say “Pads” in a way that was both fond and exasperated.   
Sirius realizes that with freedom comes happiness or, at least, finally an absence of crushing pain and sadness and he is hunched over in a cave more an animal than a human but he is at peace in his own mind for the first time in twelve long years of agony.  
He knows he needs to focus but the memories are flooding back into him in fits and starts and steady drips of rain all Remus, Remus, Moony, strong hands and soft chestnut hair and scars and claws and the smell of old books and woolen jumpers and summer hot summer sweat under Sirius’ hands--  
Sirius shakes himself and opens his eyes, panting. Harry, he had to think of Harry. Harry was in danger. Peter Pettigrew was alive. Sirius is going to kill him. He doesn’t know how to make it clever, yet, doesn’t know if he cares about clearing his name. He just wants Peter to suffer. To die. He wants to kill him so badly he knows it is a kind of madness, but it fills his veins with fire and reaches one shaking hand into the pocket of his filthy robes to extract the newspaper clipping showing the big Weasley family and the rat the rat the rat--  
Remus lying on the green grass of Hogwart’s grounds, laughing at something James said. Sirius thinks he looks like a painting, all soft browns and the vivid emerald green backdrop and he wonders who would paint a picture of a skinny werewolf wearing a holey jumper rolled up to the elbows and he thinks someone should do something to capture such a moment--  
“Fuck,” Sirius growls and digs his fingernails into the side of his face as he breathlessly tries to orient his thoughts.  
He had swum all the way from Azkaban to shore and he had run and run as Padfoot until he was his vision had begun to dim and the pain in his legs and paws had turned to numbness. He had passed out in this very nicely Padfoot-sized cave that was now entirely too small for him.  
But what is he going to do now? Could he just go to Hogwarts? Wait for the students to arrive...bide his time until he could find Peter and kill him...  
Remus presses a kiss to Sirius’ head and pulls him closer, they are lucky to have nights together now that the Order always has them off on separate death defying missions and Sirius closes his eyes and inhales deeply somehow hoping to permanently fuse with Moony’s smell and Moony’s warmth and the way Remus sometimes snores at night though he never admits to it--  
“Hogwarts, Hogwarts,” Sirius tells himself. He has to move soon. He doesn’t know how long it will take the Dementors to realize that he is gone, not dead, but once they do he will not have much time. He cannot be a man for much longer.   
He thinks about Remus. He could go see him. But that was too risky--Remus would recognize Padfoot immediately. He is sure Remus hates him. Of course he does. Sirius didn’t trust him and now James and Lily are long dead and Harry is an orphan--  
Harry, Sirius thinks, and is filled again with warmth. He can go see Harry before the long trip North to Hogwarts. One glimpse of Harry James Potter is all Sirius will need to give him the power to do what he has to. Travel back to Hogwarts. Stay away from Remus Lupin. Kill the traitor. Die, perhaps. Be Kissed. Be cleared, live like a man every day again. Tell Harry stories about his father and look up to see Remus smiling at him and they can share a bed again, again, one more time. Remus.  
Sirius shakes his head and then crawls out of the cave and emerges in the craggy wilderness. He stands tall and tips his head back, inhaling the night air. His hair reaches his elbows and his clothes are in tatters but he can stand upright and strong and think and feel whatever he wants to.  
Sirius Black is a free man, and innocent man, and that is all that matters. He rolls his shoulders and racks his brain for the one time James mentioned where Lily’s sister lived. Surely, that was where Harry was now. They are his only living relatives, Sirius thinks bitterly, and the thought of entering the Muggle world fills him with dread but he drops to the ground anyway and lets the change roll through him until the world is black and grey and he is bounding across the hard ground as a great black dog once more.


	4. Nightmares of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remus Lupin, Professor, cannot escape the man he loves: Sirius Black, Mass Murderer.

    _Sirius picks up one of Remus’ Muggle poetry books, examining the maroon cover with skepticism._  
 _“Jesus, Moony, I don’t know how you stand these.” He sniffs, putting it back down without a glance. “It’s all Muggles being dramatic.”_  
 _Remus brushes his hair off his forehead, frowning. “It’s brilliant, Pads, if you’d give it a chance.”_  
 _Sirius rolls his eyes and grins, teeth flashing. “You know I don’t have the attention span for poetry, Remus.”_  
 _Remus watches chilly in his seat as Peter whoops and hollers, Sirius and James soaring above the Quidditch pitch with the rest of the Gryffindor team and it’s seventy to ten which means Slytherin is losing, which means Regulas is losing, which means Sirius is grinning like a madman and racing past the Gryffindors in the stands and conducting them in choruses of chants, screams, encouragements._  
 _“Wow.” Peter breaths, cheeks pink with excitement._  
 _Remus watches Sirius close his eyes and soar up into the sky before plummeting down to earth like Lucifer, showing off for the crowd, and has to agree._  
 _“Agree? Of course I don’t agree!” Sirius snaps. “I’ll be over at your place on the full moon and we’ll find a forest to trot around in or something.”_  
 _“Sirius—“ Remus sighs, exasperated._  
 _Sirius pins Remus against the wall of his flat, mouth widening in a smile that is more Padfoot than anything else. “Moony, don’t make me convince you.”_  
 _“You—I won’t—“ Remus squeaks protests._  
 _Then Sirius’ mouth is at his neck, tongue gliding over the skin and fingers curling tight in the hair at the base of Remus’ scull._  
 _“I—“ Remus exhales quickly, losing the thread of his words so quickly he doesn’t even remember what he was going to say._  
 _Sirius nips his earlobe gently. “I—will let Sirius come over on the full moon to help me out?”_  
 _“Ummm.”_  
 _Sirius bit down harder._  
 _“Fine--!” Remus coughs out, shuddering. “God, Sirius.”_  
 _“You’ll thank me later.” Sirius grins, then kisses him._  
 _Sirius’ back to him, ebony hair blowing gently though Remus feels no breeze. He turns to look at Remus, grey eyes sparkling with laughter and wide mouth open in a grin, life pouring out of him—so intoxicating Remus could—_  
 _Sirius’ back to him, ebony hair blowing gently as the world around them turns cold as ice. Remus knows without truly realizing what is happening and reaches out, cry of warning or panic or relief on his lips. Sirius turns and his grey eyes are dead, flat, and his wide mouth his slack and his face is empty and there is no life there, nothing past the slow rhythm of his chest rising and falling to pump oxygen through his soulless body—_  
     “N-no!” Remus woke with a thrill of fear, sitting bolt upright in his small cot in the room adjacent to his office.  
      Sweat was pouring off his forehead and his heart was hammering in his chest painfully.  
     “Bugger.” Remus whispered shakily, burying his face in his clammy hands.  
     He had hoped to avoid this unavoidable truth—that if the Dementors caught Sirius they would perform the Kiss. He wanted to cry, wanted to laugh at the irony of it all—the fact that it would be a kiss, something he had shared with Sirius time and time again, that would suck the golden life out of his former best friend.  
“I don’t care.” Remus breathed, forcing the memories that had come with his dream far back into the corner of his mind.  
     He thought of Lily and James as often as he could without it becoming too painful—thought of Peter in his slower, warmer moments of breakfast or drowsy reading or kicking at Mrs. Norris in the corridors. He tried to never think of Sirius past the scar on Harry’s forehead or the memory of the house in Godric’s Hollow utterly destroyed.  
     But Sirius was still there, in the back of his mind, grinning and laughing and kissing and fucking and tenderly holding Remus’ after the transformation, in the feeling of a dog tongue running over wolf wounds in an effort to heal what was un-healable.  
     Remus slid out of bed and knelt down, rifling under the cot until he found what he was looking for. A shoebox, old and moldered but still holding strong. He lifted the lid gently and pulled out what he was looking for—the only picture he had of the Marauders. All of them.  
     He had sent Hagrid all his picture of Lily and James in Harry’s first year, had hidden away all the pictures of Sirius and tried to forget where they were. This was the last—the last of all of them.  
     James had his arms around Sirius and Peter, grinning up through his glasses. Sirius had both arms around Remus’ neck, tugging him into the photo with a silent crow of delight, eyes dancing. Remus was struggling, a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth.  
     Remus pressed his forehead against the picture, feeling a rare pressure of tears at the backs of his eyes. When did it stop hurting? When did seeing Harry in class feel like a shock of pain, like James and Lily combined staring at him, though never truly there. When did walking past the Hogwarts kitchens stop reminding him of Peter’s midnight snack runs, of James and Sirius’ many food raids for parties?  
     When—god, when—would he stop loving Sirius? The hate in his chest smothered the feeling most of the time but then, at times like this, love would rear up and shake the very foundation of his being.  
     _I never knew him_. Remus thought as he looked at Sirius dragging him into the picture. _The man I remember no longer exists. Never existed._  
     He put the picture back but didn’t climb into his cot. There would be no way he could fall back asleep after this.  
     Remus walked to the small window that overlooked the grounds. The forest was dark and lush; his sanctuary long ago, with a stag and dog and rat loping at his side.  
    _Stay away,_ a voice somewhere deep in his soul whispered, hide. _Don’t come back here. Don’t come near here._  
   _Stay away, Sirius._  
 _Don’t let them catch you._


	5. Across Our Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lie low at Lupin's indeed.

     Remus Lupin cannot remember the last time he woke up to someone knocking on his door at the ungodly hour of three AM. It might have been Harry’s birth. But that was over thirteen years ago—why one earth would it be starting up again now?  
     He pads down to his front door and touches his fingers to the doorknob while simultaneously raising his wand. Remus throws open the door to find Sirius Black standing on the doorstep, hair disheveled and robes filthy.  
     “Vodemort’s back.” Sirius says. “Can I have some tea?”  
     “Oh.” Remus blinks. “Alright, then.”  
***  
     Remus notices everything about Sirius—from the skinny, starved look of his wrists to the way his black hair falls just below his chin and is full of grime. Sirius takes big gulping sips of the tea that Remus provides, and he wonders idly if it burns going down.  
     “So, you’re telling me that Voldemort is back?” Remus rests his elbows on the table, chin on knuckles.  
     “Yes.” Sirius starts to devour the bread that Remus set out. “Came back tonight. Almost killed Harry. Killed a boy—Cedric Diggory, I think. Ancient Dark Magic, Moony, it sounds like. A potion that restored him to his body. That scum Pettigrew helped him do it—apparently he cut off his own bloody hand. Dumbledore is reassembling the Order. I was at Figgie’s house and then found Dung at a bar. Dumbledore told me to stay with you until we receive further instruction. If that’s alright.”  
     There was a time when Sirius would have never asked—it would have been assumed, of course, that he could stay. There was a time when the two shared a home, a bed, everything. But that time is long past.  
     “Of course you can stay.” Remus murmurs and, before he can stop himself, he reaches out and rests his hand on Sirius’s.  
     Sirius shudders slightly and, in a way that is oddly reminiscent of Padfoot, bows down to rest his head on Remus’s hand. Remus can feel the bones of Sirius’s face, the knife-edges of his cheekbones and the barest outline of teeth. A skeleton. Practically a skeleton, nothing more.  
     “He’s back, Moony.” Sirius whispers against their hands.  
     “Are you afraid?” Remus murmurs, his entire body aching towards the man across the table.  
     “Not for myself.” Sirius looks up at Remus through the ragged edges of his hair. “But for Harry.”  
     “He’ll be fine.” Remus swallows. “We’ll look out for him, Pads. Between us the and the rest of the Order nothing will happen to him, I promise.”  
     Sirius stands up suddenly and walks to the crumbling mantle, staring into the ash-covered grate and resting his forehead on the stone. His eyes have that terribly deadness that they never, ever possessed before Azkaban.  
     “Sirius.” Remus stands up and goes to stand next to him. “Nothing will happen to Harry. He’s escaped Voldemort more times than most who fought him the first time.”  
     Sirius turns to look at Remus, grey eyes shadowed. “He saw James, Remus. When his and Voldemort’s wands connected there was a spell—something to do with the twin cores. A Priori Incantatum type of spell. The last people Voldemort had murdered came out of his wand like—like ghosts. And Harry saw Lily and James.”  
     “Stop.” Remus feels like his stomach has been Transfigured into cement. “Don’t torture yourself.”  
Sirius half-smiles bitterly and looks away. Remus cannot stand the pain on his face, in every line of his body, and before he can stop himself or think too much or doubt or question Remus reaches out and wraps his arms around Sirius, drawing him against his chest and holding tight even as Sirius stiffens and starts to protest.  
     “I won’t let go.” Remus murmurs into Sirius’s hair. “Even if you want me to. Get angry, then, Padfoot. Get angry. Hate me. Anything to take that awful look in your eyes away.”  
     Sirius stills and Remus can feel his breath, hot, against the skin of his neck and then Sirius has his fists in Remus’s shirt and he is shaking.  
     “Dammit.” Sirius’s voice is thick. “Hate you? Dammit, Moony. I still—“  
     “You still what?” Remus whispers, hands fisting in the back of Sirius’s robes. “What, Sirius?”  
     Sirius is quiet for a long moment and then he lifts his head to look Remus in the eye. “When I got out of Azkaban…when I was away from the Dementors for the first time in twelve years…the first memories that came back to me were of you. Of us.”  
Remus’s heart is beating too fast. “You—“  
      “You made me happier than anything else.” Sirius’s voice is bitter again.  
     “Sirius, stop.” Now Remus’s voice is thick. “I did this, Sirius—god, this is all my fault. If I had just trusted you, back then, trusted you and believed you and never once doubted you then this never would have happened.”  
     “I still would have persuaded James to make Peter Secret Keeper.” Sirius mutters. “I thought—I didn’t want to believe it was you, Moony, of course I didn’t but I just didn’t see…anyway, it doesn’t matter. I would have gone to Azkaban regardless.”  
     “It still would have been different.” Remus says shakily. “If you had someone—even a werewolf—on your side, vouching for you, believing in you.”  
     They are both quiet for second, Remus’s arms still around Sirius and Sirius’s hands still knotted in his shirt. Then, slowly, Sirius drops his gaze and tries to move away from Remus. Remus does not budge.  
     “Bugger, Remus, let me go—“  
     “I love you.” Remus blurts out, unable to stop the words even as a voice screams YOU IDIOT over and over in his voice.  
     “Wha—“ Sirius’s eyes go wide.  
     “I love you, Sirius.” Remus can’t stop the words now. “I loved you twelve years ago and I told myself to stop loving you when you went to Azkaban and it kind of worked because as much as I loved you I hated you, too. But there was love there, always, and god I still love you so much and I know I don’t deserve to—to think about you like that because I thought you…that you were the spy and—“  
     “Shut up, please.” Sirius cuts in, hands suddenly in Remus’s hair. “You talk too much, Moony.”  
Then they are kissing fiercely, almost violently. Twelve years of missing and hating and loving, of nightmares and half-remembered touches collide as Sirius pushes Remus against the wall, as Remus winds his hands into Sirius’s collar and crushes them together.  
     “I love you.” Sirius whispers in between kisses. “I’ve been, been pathetically in love with you for the past twelve years and this past year has been torture because I thought you…that you had—“  
     “Had what?” Remus kissed Sirius’s jaw, neck, shoulder. “Moved on? Forgotten? God, Sirius, I wanted to do this when I saw you in the Shack.”  
     “Should have.” Sirius exhales sharply as Remus’s mouth opens over his throat. “You bloody should have, Moony.”  
     “Because that would have been great for the kids to see.” Remus replies dryly and they both laugh for a moment before their mouths come together again.  
     “Isn’t there a bed in this house?” Sirius murmurs against Remus’s lips. “I distinctly remember there being a bed the last time I was here.”  
     “Oh, I suppose there is.” Remus grins at the way Sirius’s eyes are bright, alive again.  
     This is the Sirius he remembers—all pink cheeks and flashing eyes and grinning wildly. His stomach dips with the remembering, with the reality.  
     “Never leave me again.” Remus says.  
    “Never again.” Sirius replies and then Remus is dragging him up the stairs and into his tiny bedroom, slamming the door behind them.


	6. Across Our Memories Part Two

They kiss violently, desperately, and Remus can taste blood as he roughly pulls Sirius’ ragged shirt off and runs his hands reverently over bare skin.  
“God, I’ve been Padfoot for months now.” Sirius breaks the kiss and looks up at Remus with something close to shame. “I’m--I could probably use a shower.”  
Remus wishes he cared more that Sirius has been running around as a dog for months and had what Remus is fairly sure is a mixture of dirt and blood in his hair. Unfortunately, he hadn’t even thought about it till now. Being in love is disgusting, Remus thinks and is filled with such a wild burst of joy he tastes copper.  
“Well as it would happen,” Remus smoothes his hands up and down Sirius’ sides (each rib meets his touch like a careless reminder that Sirius is starving), “I have a rather roomy shower right here in the toilet.”  
Sirius stills and then smiles, dark eyes flickering with a life Remus has not seen for a long time. The dance of light is brief, though, and then the curtains close once again and Sirius looks up at Remus like a drowning man.  
“I--” Sirius steadies himself on Remus’ shirt. “Moony, I--”  
Remus drew Sirius close, winding his hand in the other man’s grubby hair and pressing him against his chest. “Pads, shh, just tell me what you’re thinking.”  
“I’m still...” Sirius is quiet in his arms for a moment before he pushes away. Remus is stronger; he could have kept him. But he lets his hold break and Sirius stumbles back, all wild eyes and wiry posture again.  
“I still feel...like an animal,” Sirius whispers harshly, “sometimes. After so long. Being Padfoot. And then before...so long in Azkaban. Being nothing. I just...I haven’t been touched like, like a human...for so long. I’m--I’m afraid I won’t know what...to do.”  
Remus feels broken, for a moment, shattered along a familiar fault line. It was torturous to imagine Sirius’ suffering when Remus still thought he was the betrayer. Now, thinking about him rotting in Azkaban and then spending so long as a hunted man disguised as a dog...he feels responsible, of course. How did I let this happen? How do I fix it?  
“Sirius,” Remus held his hands out like he would to a feral animal, “we can go as slow or as fast as you want. You can go shower and curl up in bed and sleep, as long as you want, and when you wake up I’ll make us breakfast. You can kiss me or not kiss me, sleep with me or, or not--Sirius, God, I just want you here. I want to watch you sleep and I want to--to brush your hair or something fucking stupid like that because I love you and I’ve needed you for twelve years and now you’re finally here. And I won’t...I won’t let any bloody thing hurt you, especially not me.”  
Sirius looks limp, watching Remus with a vulnerability that Remus has never seen on his face before. He has seen Sirius at manys states during their long years together, from an irate eleven-year-old with a superiority complex to an extremely drunk fifteen-year-old who alternated between raucous laughter and bouts of crying to a twenty-year-old with the vengeful power of an Angel bent on destroying the forces of evil. But the look on Sirius’ face was something Remus had never seen before and he wondered if he would ever understand this new Sirius, understand what Azkaban had done...what it had created.  
But the moment passes and Sirius melts, smiling roguishly at Remus just like he had for years.  
“Moony, you brilliantly sensitive werewolf, let’s take a shower.” 

They do.

Somehow the water ends up shut off and they end up back in Remus’ bed, both significantly cleaner and also very naked. Sirius’ skin and hair is a few shades lighter relieved of the layer of grime, and the pinkness in his cheeks and the tip of his nose from the hot water makes him look more human. Remus, bless him, is so stupidly in love it hurts.  
Sirius seems to like touching more than being touched and Remus lets him smooth his hands all over his body, watching Sirius’ eyes roam over him with a dark hunger.  
“God, I missed you,” Sirius whispers, hands tangled in Remus’ hair, brushing the damp nape of his neck, cupping his shoulders, fingernails down his back, thighs, up again, and Remus can’t help but shiver and fight back a whine as Sirius works his way through all his sensitive spots.  
“I never thought we’d be back here,” Remus says quietly, reaching out to brush his thumb along Sirius’ jawline.  
Sirius ducks his head, kissing Remus’ neck gently and again Remus has to bite back a whine, a growl, the urge to take Sirius by the neck and pin him to the bed. Slow, slow, like teenagers discovering each other’s body for the first time. Sirius kisses his ear, breathes deeply at his hairline, Remus closes his eyes and remembers.  
Sirius kisses Remus’ temples, his scars, the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes and mouth. In turn, Remus runs his hands over Sirius’ bony back and hips and ribs, feels all the place where muscle has become bone and fullness has become hollow. He thumbs Sirius’ cheeks, gaunt, and nose--sharp and aristocratic as ever, perhaps the last vestige of the proud beauty Sirius once had.  
Of course, Remus amends mentally as Sirius kisses exploratorily down Remus’ throat, he’s still beautiful.  
“The last time,” Sirius says suddenly, looking up from Remus’ collar bone, “I was like this was the last time we had sex.”  
Remus, taken aback, is suddenly flooded by the memory. It had been four months before the Potters’ had died, just in the hazy beginnings of their mistrust for each other. It had been quick, rough, very little tender kisses or touches. Still, Sirius had slept on Remus’ chest afterwards and had still been there in the morning.  
It was a memory Remus had avoided thinking about much over the last twelve years. Now, it is just bearable because Sirius is looking at him through his shaggy hair.  
“Have you,” Sirius swallows and glances down, “have you, since then...what am I saying, it’s been--twelve years, of course you have...”  
Remus feels a swell of old guilt; stale as vomit in his mouth.  
“Padfoot,” Remus reaches out and cradles Sirius’ face with his hand, “only a few times. A few drunken...desperate times, only with strangers.”  
Remus can remember them, these ill-advised trysts, only in snatches. Sloppy kisses at a bar, sweaty hands, an unfamiliar body against his, sometimes pain and sometimes pleasure, his hands around wrists. And of course, Sirius.  
“I couldn’t do it without thinking about you,” Remus whispers roughly, “not even drunk and, God, I tried to get drunk enough to forget. But the few times...I would see your face, hear your voice. You’re always...you’ve always been the one, Pads.”  
Remus is shocked to see Sirius’ cheeks color.  
“Are you blushing?” Remus laughs, pulling Sirius down on his chest so he can kiss the top of his head. “You’re such a wanker, Sirius, God help me.”  
“You dirty werewolf,” Sirius laughs against the skin of his chest, “can’t trust a bloody thing you evil creatures of the night say.”  
“My wizened criminal,” Remus can’t stop laughing, “my mass murderer, blushing like a schoolboy. I’m simply in shock.”  
Sirius wrestles himself free and grins at Remus, all teeth and eyelashes. “I think I’m ready.”  
Remus squeezes Sirius’ shoulders, “If you’re ever...not, ready...just tell me, alright?”  
Sirius ducks his head in a nod and then his hands are down Remus’ body, spreading his legs slightly as Sirius kisses his way down Remus’ chest, lingering on his hips.  
“Sirius, Sirius,” Remus is panting in surprise, for a moment blindsighted by joy that it was Sirius’ name he is chanting like a prayer in a tangle of sheets.  
Sirius is all hot breath and tongue and, God help him, teeth. Remus arches up, unable to stop the animalistic whine that curves out of the back of his throat.  
“You sound like a dog,” Sirius murmurs from his current place between Remus’ legs and Remus laughs. It’s an old joke between them; so old Remus had forgotten about it until now.  
“God, Pads,” Remus sat up and tugged Sirius up by his shoulders, “I just--”  
“I know, Moony,” Sirius kisses him and Remus takes it as permission to push him down on the bed and roll on top. He revels in the solidity of Sirius Black, promises himself that he’ll see that all the bony edges are rounded out soon and the life is returned to his face and that they will be what they were before.  
It’s all panting breath and Sirius’ fingers digging into his hips and Remus fumbles intelligently for his wand on the bedside table as Sirius begins to do something very distracting with this hands.  
Remus murmurs a conjuring spell that he and Sirius had mastered back in seventh year and often exalted as one of the greatest spells ever created.  
Sirius laughs, “Bloody hell it’s been a long time since I heard you conjure lube up, Moony.”  
“Shh,” Remus nips his earlobe, “you always ruin the moment.”  
Sirius laughs until Remus slips a finger inside him and all laughter turns to breathy moans that intimately remind Remus of being young and love and unable to keep their hands off each other.  
Remus slides their hips together then hesitates, overtaken by the memory of the trapped-animal look in Sirius’ eyes earlier.  
“Moony,” Sirius slides one hand down cup his hip and uses the other to brush Remus’ sweaty hair from his forehead, “it’s alright. I’m alright.”  
Remus thinks he is lying and thinks, again, that there must be a way he can fix this all. This mess they both had created twelve years ago when they let love become an excuse for mistrust. Remus is sure there is a way they can be themselves again. He thinks about the way Sirius looked in the Shack, a year ago already, a stranger with the eyes of the man Remus had loved and hated and loved more than anything else in the world.  
He thinks, it has to start with trust, and thrusts into Sirius with a gasp.  
In the long twelve years apart Remus had tried not think about sex with Sirius Black but now it overtakes him and he feels something akin to a howl building in his chest as he bites Sirius’ neck, shoulders, and Sirius groans and sinks his fingers into the flesh of Remus’ hips and Remus obeys and begins to thrust faster, deeper.  
“Moony, Moony,” Sirius’ voice is hoarse and just on the edge of a growl and Remus cannot believe he is lucky enough to be Moony again, here, fucking Sirius into the mattress and thick with the smell of his hair.  
Remus kisses Sirius sloppily on the mouth before bracing his hand on the headboard and driving into Sirius with a low moan.  
Sirius tenses around and with a cracked “Fuck, Remus” and comes shaking and grasping at Remus’ arms and he closes his eyes, face gentle in ecstasy and he looks so much like he did back before the war, all dark hair and cheekbones and eyelashes and curving lips that Remus tastes salty tears.  
“Sirius,” Remus whispers and the hot tension in his belly finally crests and he bows over Sirius’ body jittery with orgasm and relief and grief that still lurks in his bones as if this was all a dream and in a moment reality would orient itself and he would be alone and cold and not kissing Sirius Black’s collarbone, unable to untangle their limbs.  
“Jesus, Moony,” Sirius laughs breathlessly, “I--bloody hell, I don’t even know what to say.”  
Remus props himself up on trembling arms, “Worth, er, worth the wait, I would say.”  
Sirius rolls his eyes and brushes the hair from Remus’ face, and his hands are shaking, too. Remus thinks, fondly, that they’re both too old for this. “I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”  
Remus laughs and buries his face in the crook between Sirius’ neck and shoulder, floating somewhere between giddy and somber.  
“We can sleep,” Sirius says quietly after a long stretch of silence, “together. Again. In the same bed.”  
Remus wonders if such simple things will ever stops sounding like miracles. “And wake up in the morning.”  
Sirius presses a kiss to the crown of Remus’ head. “I’ll take you up on that offer of breakfast.”  
Sirius goes so long without talking that Remus assumes he fell asleep, and even begins to nod off himself. They are curled up together, thin quilt pulled up to their chins, when Sirius finally speaks again.  
“Moony,” he whispers.  
“Mm,” Remus grunts, suddenly reminded of many a night in the dormitory when Sirius would keep everyone awake with his philosophical or idiotic ramblings at two in the morning.  
Sirius shifts, “I’m sorry about...everything.”  
Remus cracks his eyes open to see Sirius looking at him, features almost indistinguishable in the dark.  
What can he say? I’m sorry too, for the murders and the loss and the twelve years of hatred and then this last year of distance and too-formal letters like they were just two old school friends who just happened to keep in touch. Sorry for all the lies, or sorry for everything that was true. Sorry for growing old and lined, silver-haired and poor. Sorry that, even though they would wake up in the same bed together in the morning, nothing from this point on would be easy for them.  
He can say none of that. Sirius’ still had dark shutters in his eyes, threatening to close at any second and take away the man Remus loved and replace him with the madman that came tumbling out of Azkaban. Remus will do anything he can to keep his Sirius Black here, safe and warm and loved.  
“Hush, Pads,” Remus drew Sirius against his chest and breathed a kiss into his hair, “just go to sleep. I’ll be here.”  
Sirius is quiet again but this time it is because he has fallen fast asleep, tucked against Remus’ chest.  
Like schoolboys, Remus thinks fondly before he, too, surrenders to darkness.


End file.
